


Major/Minor

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Control, Dark, Dom/sub, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he didn't argue all that much. Or maybe at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Major

"Major."

John hears it in his sleep, McKay's voice like a yank to the collar, dragging him from where ever he was to where ever McKay wants him to be.

He doesn't know how it starts. He honestly doesn't remember much beyond the first hurried encounter, Rodney's cock widening his mouth, shoving against his throat until the thin, delicate flesh burned for hours afterwards, coming with a grunt and a pat to his head. "Good," McKay had said. "That's good."

Since then, it's just been _Major_. 

For someone who believes in patterns as much as McKay, proofs that are invalid until they've been repeated over and over, there's never any pattern that John can distinguish. Sometimes it's right after missions, Rodney shoving him onto his knees, or his belly, slamming him up against walls as he fumbles their pants open just enough. 

But not always. 

Sometimes it's after a trying day in the lab, when McKay is still so angry a vein pulses in his forehead. He hurts, then, abandoning the impersonal care he usually takes in slicking John, muttering about not wanting to rub the skin of his own dick off inside John's skinny, narrow ass. Then it's just brunt force, more than John's ever imagined a slightly rotund scientist could produce. McKay's a rival to the most brutish of soldiers, when he's like that, fucking John red, leaving him sore days afterward. 

John never admits to himself that he likes those times best. But even he can note the increased hurry to his steps when McKay barks a, _"Major!"_ in his ear, using the private channel they never tell anyone else about. The one that never once hears a Lieutenant Colonel, not even years after it should.

Sometimes McKay wants it slow, yanking John over his lap so he can suck slow and steady, McKay busy with email he can't keep quiet about even with his cock inside John's throat. Those times are hardest. John's not _there_ , as far as McKay is concerned. Not then. All he cares is that his dick is getting sucked, slow and steady until John's jaw pops and aches for hours afterward. All he cares is that he's getting relief.

How is immaterial. Who is even less relevant.

John has to slink back to his quarters after those times; occasionally he's forced to stop, find himself a secluded corner he can jerk off in, because he can't wait an additional thirty feet.

John's gotten expert at knowing where security cameras are placed. He knows the first time was right after the satellite, McKay staring and frozen as Gaul and Abram's bodies were taken to their newly-created morgue. He knows McKay had already known, or guessed, somehow pegged him for exactly what he is.

He knows he didn't argue all that much. Or maybe at all.

He doesn't like what that says about him, but he's always been a realist. He is what he is. McKay knows and takes advantage. No harm, no foul.

It's never effected their work. It's only when they're alone, away from everyone else, John somehow prone and breached, whatever McKay wants that time, that's the only time McKay's face loses all animation, his orders barked out with a drill sergeant's hard-won skill, entirely at odds with the babbling, bumbling man John shepherd's the rest of the time.

John honestly doesn't know which of them flips the more painful switch. Probably McKay. The man is hardly ever quiet, and their encounters are usually silent as a tomb.

Except when McKay gives him orders. 

Most of the time, those orders are brusque: "Suck it", or "on your knees" or "ass up". They're deliberately coarse; John understands that and tries not to turn into a hot pool of lust each time.

But most of the time isn't _all_ the time.

It's rare, like McKay has to ration out his words or risk saying something he doesn't want. What it is, John has no idea -- but he knows there are words kept trapped behind McKay's teeth, lips pursed into slanting lines. There have to be. But the few times they do appear, it's never what John's expecting. Never what John thinks he wants.

Instead, they're what he _actually_ wants.

"Fuck yourself on me," Rodney will tell him, flush with a silken confidence that John never sees outside of these moments. "Spread yourself open and make yourself hard."

Normally, McKay couldn't care if John's hard when he's fucked or sucking; even less if he comes. That's not what any of this is about. When John _does_ come he has to scurry to clean it -- or himself -- up before McKay accidentally blunders into the mess. It's not that McKay doesn't want him to enjoy what they do. It's that he genuinely doesn't care. John's cock is for John to take care of, however he might do it.

Just as McKay's cock is also his responsibility. 

Those times, when McKay tells him exactly where and how, blunt words wielded like a knife, that's when John can barely stand it. He'll come like a teenager, McKay's dick barely inside his ass, barely nudging the back of his throat, rubbing silken and smooth against the wiry trail down his stomach -- John's lost then, lust a haze of cloud and smoke that he can barely breathe through, let alone see. He comes two, three times when McKay's like that, choking on his own need while McKay confidently caters to his own.

He doesn't know if McKay says the words for himself or for John. He knows it's a conceit that he's even entertaining the notion.

Nothing they do is about John. Ever. 

Reality never matters when McKay gets the urge. Even after Duranda, John's back on his knees, McKay's, "Suck it, you bastard, I want to fuck your throat," making him tremble with anything but anger. He _wants_ to mix the two -- even tries a few times, bringing up work, or trying to comment about something silly that'd happened that day.

When John does that, McKay stops. Completely. He could be in the middle of orgasm, and it'd never matter. He stops and leaves, regardless of who's room they might be in, and won't call on John for days and days.

Not until John gives some indication he's contrite. That he's learned his lesson and he knows which boundaries he can never cross.

He can't bear it when McKay cuts him off.

Oh, he's tried -- there are always people to take the edge off, if he's careful, random planets bedazzling with their beauties, men and women who understand the essence of the casual encounter.

He actually goes through with it only once, and that was when he was trapped among new-aged hippies for six months. It had sucked. Badly. 

Virgins never ordered you around. 

If McKay knows, he's never mentioned -- but it's the longest he's gone without calling on John, almost a full two weeks after his return, and when he's finally hears the squawk of a radio being turned on John's running to where he knows McKay is, watched through sensors and his own private life signs detector, already hard before he sees McKay, seconds from coming the moment he gets his hands on the velvet of McKay's cock, moaning with eagerness.

He knows he's being trained. Conditioned. What he can't decide is if he minds.

At least, not until PS3-M59.

It's the same as too many other worlds -- Wraith-wary, not primitive but not as developed as their own 20th century levels, bucolic and peaceful until the very last moment. The 'last moment', in this case, is the sudden pronouncement of the waif-like ruler, all big blue eyes and wispy blond hair, that he cannot abide such flagrant disrespect.

Teyla tries to sooth and calm, to ascertain what it is that's caused such offense. John tries to look supportive and not as flummoxed as he is -- when suddenly there's a hand on the back of his neck, familiar as the sun and just as warm. His knees turn liquid and he thuds into position without awareness he's obeyed, leaning towards Rodney because he can't _not_ when he's like this, mouth wet and cock hardening.

The ruler, tucked into a chair twice his size, smirks his pleasure.

John only understands afterward, noting the biggest and brawniest, those clearly warriors, are set at the remove, hovering two steps beyond the women, the smaller men. They are in service, John realizes, his stomach tightening with sympathy that is already tainted green and jealous. Their orders aren't just for protection, but for _use_. Their bodies are all that they have, and they are bound and tempered by those half their size or physical skill.

Teyla understands a few moments later, abruptly leaning back towards Ronon. It is too much to ask him to kneel, not without explaining -- and possibly not even then -- but Ronon figures it out not long after, looking menacingly towards the ruler but clearly contained by Teyla's slim, watchful presence.

The ruler relaxes and trading begins. John stays on his knees until they're moved, only remembering to stand and walk instead of crawl when McKay snaps his fingers in his ear, distracting him.

Relocated, John finds himself on his knees again, face resting on the length of Rodney's thigh. 

Both Teyla and Ronon spare him the occasional curious, pensive glance, but for the most part Teyla is concerned with getting the best bargain for Atlantis and Ronon is concerned with making certain Teyla is well protected, the leashed monster only seconds from attacking any that give her pause.

It's a very effective strategy, particularly when John or McKay's skills are useless, such as now.

McKay does interject occasionally, snapping out queries about power sources, what ores or minerals might be useful for Atlantis' ever-growing needs. Most of his time, however, is spent with one hand on John, stroking absently over hair and skin, curving around his ear to brush against the sensitive skin underneath.

John is so hard he dreads standing up.

When trading winds down and wine is introduced, the tenseness of two new people's sniffing each other like dogs eases. Teyla's gestures grow expansive -- she will never allow herself to become drunk on a first contact mission, but just the slightest hint of tipsy allows others to think she might be. Ronon too slumps in his chair, tipping towards Teyla and not objecting when she shoves at him irritably, pushing him back on his own buttocks.

It's an act from first to last. But the wine helps a little. 

McKay is slumped back in his cushioned seat, watching the proceedings quietly. He's been more the man who fucks John senseless this trip, less the scientist who gets himself into more trouble than any one man should. John isn't sure how to act, how much he can risk giving away versus how much he can actually fight the compulsions he's followed for three long years.

"I had not thought you understood." It's the ruler, still skinny enough to be broken in half by a stiff breeze, fully the arrogant lordling with a woman and two men trailing behind him like eager dogs. The bigger of the two men kneels at his feet when he halts, presenting his head for whatever touches he might be gifted with.

McKay salutes him with a lazy wave of his wine glass. His hand is tight and tense against John's neck. "We've learned that presenting a united fronts gets more from the ignorant," he says. "How were we to know you were so enlightened?"

He's sneering, clearly mocking this world's 'enlightened' behavior. The boy takes it at face value, however, grinning delightedly. "I could not imagine one such as your Colonel Sheppard truly leading," he says with a twisted, ugly grin. "He is so very... controllable."

John works hard not to flinch; Rodney's nails are sharp.

"One of his charms," Rodney answers, drinking deeply. He's uncomfortable, annoyed, but it only serves to make him look more arrogant and sure, for once, instead of stuttering and generally the opposite of whatever he's trying for. "And no. You will not get to try him."

The boy laughs, joyous that he has been caught out, even as he scuffs a foot. "Too bad. Perhaps a demonstration, then?"

He whirls away, snapping out orders in words that make no sense, colloquial slang too thick for them to determine. Teyla presses herself closer, Ronon a shadow at her heels. "I do not approve of what they imply."

"Tell them you're shy," Rodney counsels. "That you don't approve of sharing your, ah, _Ronon's_ charms. That you had to fight for him, or something. I don't know, you're better at making this kind of thing up than me." 

"And you?" Ronon's eyes are sharp, flicking between the two of them thoughtfully. "You'll go through with it?"

When he asks, his eyes are on McKay. Like he knows that John won't object, doesn't _want_ to object.

"It's not a big deal," John says, voice rasping. It's hard for him to talk when it's like this, mission or no. On his knees means panting silence and he's already most of the way there. "McKay's right. Tell them you won't risk losing Ronon to a rival and I'll -- "

"Shut up," McKay hisses. John's jaw shuts with a click, moments before the boy-king returns. 

Teyla's speech is flowery and misleading, clearly thought up on the spot -- her steely gaze, however, wins more than her uncertain rhetoric. Ronon is exempt, the two of them shown a to a low-slung chair where Teyla is encouraged to recline against her warrior.

They're very attractive, bound up like that. Cool and calm like water, the Hercules and Xena McKay often calls them, surveying the room like royalty. 

McKay yanks him up by his hair, breaking his observation, tugging him between his legs.

"Oh, no," the boy protests. He's already naked from the waist down, the two men lapping at him while the woman rubs his arm over and over, clearly just for the touch of his skin against hers. "We must see!"

"You must nothing," McKay snaps acidly. "I dislike sharing as much as Teyla, although my own is far less desirable." He looks grumpy at that, like he's been cheated of his due. It's a familiar expression.

It makes John feel awful, pressing his face into Rodney's knee to stop himself from shriveling into a tight, shamed ball.

He tells himself it's acting.

Rodney glides his palm through John's hair, impatiently reassuring. "Stop it," he barks, but John can hear the odd affection in his voice, the nervousness he isn't showing. "As for you, our customs about the warrior class may be similar but our sexual practices are _not_. I won't fuck him where everyone can see his cock."

John bites back a moan, forcing his body still.

"Very well," the boy concedes. His enjoyment is sapping his desire to order anyone else about, already panting as he rides into one of the male's throats. 

"So you glad you agree," McKay sneers. He widens his legs, not even bothering to look down to where John is waiting, panting and eager -- he doesn't need to. "Get on with this farce."

John gets on with it as fast as he can, diving forward to suck McKay into his mouth so his exposure is limited to a few seconds. He uses his hands, framing McKay's cock, teasing his balls, providing what cover he can. He has no idea if this is what McKay wants, but the instinct is overwhelming -- McKay is _his_. No one else is allowed to see, and perhaps want, what John has.

He has no idea where it comes from, but he doesn't try to fight it.  
He sucks without urgency, but three years of brutal encounters has taught John about McKay's body and his pleasures. John uses the point of his tongue right under the head, the barest scrape of teeth along the heavy, pulsing vein, encouraging McKay's orgasm without being obvious about it.

His reward is McKay's come, better than the wine he was given sips of, and McKay's hand in his hair, holding him steady for the final thrusts, fingers warm and caressing against his scalp.

It's the sweetest they've ever been to each other. John isn't sure how to handle that, even as he rubs himself against the leg McKay gives him, coming with a strangled gasp, his mouth still wrapped around McKay's cock.

If it's acceptable, John never knows. He slumps, drowsing, unable to concentrate even as he prays Teyla remains watchful. He can't, too busy riding out the edges of his pleasure, tucked warmly between McKay's legs. He stays that way for hours, occasionally mouthing the pants McKay buttons, just in case he wants more. 

They're given a single room for the night. Neither Teyla nor Ronon will look at him as he trails McKay inside. He knows what he looks like, mouth pink-swollen, his pants clinging to him as he moves if no longer damp, following McKay with the mindless gaze of an automaton.

He doesn't care.

He goes where McKay points, falling onto the soft furs this planet uses for a bed, watching McKay with hooded eyes. McKay looks at him, then sighs. "It'll stop once he's back at Atlantis."

"We have said nothing," Teyla starts, but McKay is waving her silent.

"Please, give me some credit. He's going to be useless for the next day or two. Being on his knees does that."

It's too accurate for John to wince, but he wants to.

"You can handle it?" Ronon asks. He's still half-playing the valet to Teyla, taking what she strips off and folding it neatly before attending to his own comfort.

"Yes, yes, of course I can."

"John." 

Teyla's voice floats, an aria above McKay's strident tones. John turns towards it, forcing his eyes open. "Yeah?" It hurts to speak. His throat is deliciously sore.

"Are you well, John?"

He doesn't realize he's smiling until Ronon makes a huffing sound, saying, "He's fine. You're on first watch, McKay. Don't give me nightmares."

McKay snaps something back, but already he's curling into bed with John, allowing their bodies to touch the way they rarely ever have before -- John doesn't often stay the night, and when he does they don't get much sleep. But this... this is nice.

"You're so much work," McKay whispers to him viciously. "Why couldn't you have the _other_ kind of sordid military lifestyle?"

His -- what? John opens his eyes wide in the darkness, unable to see anything and not really wanting to. Is Mckay -- is _Rodney_ \-- 

"I thought," he says.

"Oh, shut up," McKay interrupts him. "I'd let you suck me but getting it up in front of Lord High Twink and Company was my limit. I am _not_ fucking your face with Ronon and Teyla ten feet away. And yes, I'm aware they can hear me. I'll freak out over saying what I just did later."

John swallows and obediently quiets. His mind is too busy for sleep, too busy to acknowledge what happens over the next two days of trading, and thank god they all have practice at covering for one or the other during debriefings because John is unable to do anything at all.

Not until it's night and McKay taps the radio awake, barking, "Major."

Nothing's different as McKay shoves him onto the bed, kneeing his legs apart as he shoves two impatient fingers into John's ass. Nothing's different at all.

Just everything.

"Would you ever let me fuck you?" John asks, sweat-soaked and gasping as he grinds himself back onto McKay's thick cock. It’s effort to push the words into being, but he struggles this once. The answer will tell him if he needs to ever again.

McKay snorts, biting at John's neck. "Please. Like you want to?"

No. No he really doesn't.


	2. Minor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly even scarier is that he's not sure he minds so much. Or even at all.

Rodney can sense the impending doom with a cartoon-like heaviness, pregnant clouds hovering over the yawning, jagged chasm. Whatever stupid system this planet is ruled by, _logic_ or _reason_ are apparently not among the guiding principles.

He can see madness in this kid's eyes. It's subtle, very subtle, but Rodney's only clueless about normal people. Abnormal is right up his ally.

In all honesty, it's fear that makes him react, makes him raise a hand that is absolutely not trembling to touch the back of Sheppard's neck, where he's touched a thousand times before. It's for his own comfort, a way of sharing the _oh god, we're going to die, do something!_ that's bubbling in his veins, adrenaline a drug that makes his heart race, his lungs not pulling in enough air.

Except Rodney forgets _why_ the gesture is so familiar, and manages to blank on it right up to the moment Sheppard slides to his knees with a muffled sigh, tilting towards Rodney like Sheppard's the swinging point of a compass and Rodney is north.

Okay. Um. That really, really isn't what Rodney meant, but the stupid little crazy leader is nodding, pleased, and Rodney can _see_ the understanding unfold in Teyla's eyes, enough markers that Rodney finally gets it too.

Apparently, they're on Planet of The Crazy Dominants. Rodney has tons of cousins he never even knew about and really? He'd be so much happier if that ignorance had continued.

Sheppard's not supposed to do this in public. That's the point, the lovely symbiotic relationship they have going and have had for years. Sheppard gets to give himself completely, letting himself be used and ordered around the way his sexually-twisted mind craves. Rodney gets to get off in Sheppard's body like he owns it, and, in a way, does. For at least that slice of time. It works, it's their _thing_ , the one they don't need to talk about, because Rodney's having regular sex and Sheppard's lost the tight, needy look it seems only Rodney could identify _anyway_ , and neither of them have ever needed to talk about it. Ever.

It's not supposed to be shared with others.

Later, it's Rodney again who figures out what the insane twink-leader is after, a bolt of nervousness going through him. Performing for an audience? Hell, if he hadn't been so insanely horny, so frustrated with life and everything about it, he's honestly not sure he would've been hard enough for Sheppard to suck, let alone fuck his face the way he had. It's still an anomaly Rodney doesn't understand but is pathetically grateful for. After all -- _regular sex_. That said regular sex also kills two other birds -- Sheppard and his insane need to never be in complete control, and Rodney's own extremely repressed desire to control in ways he rarely does no matter how much he verbally bludgeons -- is just bonus. 

Rodney shakes himself out of his musings just in time to catch Teyla's question. He rattles through a response, mind still focused on Sheppard. Should he fuck him? It'd be easier to simulate if he can't get it up -- except that means exposing Sheppard to everyone's eyes. And Rodney knows, he _knows_ that Sheppard would love that. The military had fucked up an already distorted kink of Sheppard's and playing the sexual doll for an audience might push him in a direction Rodney would never be able to follow, never be able to rescue him from.

That it'd also be _so hot_ is irrelevant. Sheppard's hot. Always. Exposed with everyone wanting to touch what Rodney won't ever share -- actually, that's not a fantasy, he realizes. That's a _nightmare_. He knows he can't truly be what Sheppard wants, he's read between the lines of profile after profile, surreptitious research first into his own frankly terrifying desire to order Sheppard to turn around and present his ass for fucking -- a fantasy Rodney had for three months before he ever got to do it -- and then later his equally terrified understanding that Sheppard can't say no. Not when he's so firmly in that headspace.

Rodney has far, far more control over Sheppard than he'd ever dreamed. Way more than the kinky fuck-buddy relationship he'd thought they had.

Possibly even scarier is that he's not sure he minds so much. Or even at all.

Rodney ends up forcing a blow job, grateful when Sheppard picks up on his unspoken nervousness, doing his best to not only suck Rodney off as competently as always, but make sure no one else gets to see. It helps, knowing that Sheppard wants to protect him this way. It gets him harder faster, and even emboldens him enough to thrust forward his leg, Sheppard frantically humping his shin once Rodney's come.

It should not be so hot. _Should not be so hot_.

But it really is.

Later, back in their rooms, Rodney is presented with the knowledge that not only has he been sucked off in public, he's been sucked off by _Sheppard_ in front of the _rest of their team_. The team that might not take so kindly to the way Rodney loves to manhandle Sheppard against the wall, kicking his feet apart while he finger-fucks the silently writhing Colonel for twenty minutes or more before finally fucking him.

They probably wouldn't like that at all, no.

He's nervous, terrified really, and the fact that right now his terror is working for him only makes it worse. Then Ronon says, "He's fine. You're on first watch, McKay. Don't give me nightmares," and Rodney realizes that even if they don't understand, they know that Sheppard's not going to stay where he doesn't want, and Rodney's not going to put up with someone else' neuroses.

What they have is theirs. It's never been a problem before, and it won't be a problem later, either.

So when they're back on Atlantis and Rodney finally feels comfortable, he settles more comfortably on his bed and toggles his radio on. "Major," he says, cold and clinical and so eager he wants to squirm around, like a child who's _sure_ he can hold it a little bit longer.

When Sheppard arrives he's already panting, pants tented obscenely. Rodney's restlessness melts away and he leans back against the bed. Face impassive, he turns his laptop on and begins catching up on his email. "Suck me off," he orders as he works.

He can feel the difference when they fuck, later. It's no longer as impersonal, the back room fuck that Sheppard's gotten off to for so long. It isn't worse, though. Or better. Just different.

When Sheppard asks if he'll ever get to fuck, Rodney's laughter is more joyous than he realizes he feels. Sheppard's _talking_ during sex. "Like you want to," he snaps, and buries the tenderness he feels into harder, more precise thrusts into Sheppard's ass.

They don't have hearts and roses. They don't need them, either. This is more than enough.


End file.
